Flock of Seagulls and the Rumple-packed Guitar
by ginnyharry.crucio
Summary: Monica's wonderment about the emotionally stunted journey through Lincoln High was about to become ten times worse now that she had realised Ross's jerk best friend was going to be an unfortunate part of the package deal. High-school Mondler.
**Hey there, little ones. High-school slight AU. Monica's POV. ENJOY!**

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I

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They never said first time's a charm. Adulthood was a myth, and I never really wanted to get close.

I held my breath as I entered the class. The class was quite in shambles. It annoyed my obsessive compulsive eye. I hadn't even officially enrolled yet and I already felt like a freak. There was nothing to be scared about, I thought. They were all new people. New people, with a better physique, and definitely better social skills.

Yeah, I was a little fat. A little more than little, actually. I took up one and a half person's worth of classroom space, but then, hey, that was me. Monica. I pulled out a chair and settled down, shutting out the usual ruckus and pretending to read the biology textbook. Digging my face into the page helped with the denial.

Suddenly there was a tap on my back. I turned my head.

"You readin' that... thing?"

It was a guy sitting right behind me. I nodded; it was an obvious answer. The guy gave me a wide smile. He was handsome, more or less. More, actually. He looked Hispanic, Italian maybe. Not that it mattered.

"You understood anythin'?" He prodded again.

"I just started actually..."

"Did ya come across that page with the naked woman?"

The tinge of attraction I felt for the guy had already begun to die out. I raised my eyebrows. "Uh, what naked woman?"

He seemed deep in thought, rubbing his chin and staring at the ceiling, before something dawned upon him and he broke into another spell of laughter. "Oh, no, sorry. It was a different magazine I was readin'... while pretendin' to read this one." For some reason he nodded and gloated, as if it were some kind of an inside joke. I shook my head and faced front again. Good God.

"I'm Joey Tribbiani, by the way," he said behind my back. Turning round would be too much of an effort, so I just hummed along, "I'm Monica Geller."

It was not as if I didn't know anyone in the class. I knew Rachel, although I wasn't sure how much it would actually help me merge. Rachel was pretty, albeit with a weird-looking nose (and a rumour about her having a teeny-weenie in the front way down south, I wasn't sure myself what the hell that was about). First day in high school, and she had already made a huddle around her; girls talked to her with googly, admiring eyes.

On the other hand, here I was, sitting with this stupid biology textbook. A sore fat loser. Ranting aside, I wished the class started soon.

A middle-aged frizzy sweater-clad woman walked in and the class began. I adjusted into my seat and tried to listen; the huddle around Rachel had settled into the chairs but hadn't stopped giggling. I glanced behind me; the Joey Tribbiani guy was grinning at something too. He had probably found his magazine again.

Maybe it was the teacher. It wasn't a very good teacher. Possibly she was as new as we were. Not to mention, her enunciations were hilarious, and so were the buck teeth.

And how I wished that was the worst part of the class.

This part was tricky to explain. I had this obsessive thing about me – I _loved_ to compete, about the silliest of things. The part she taught was quite well-versed, so I was dead sure I had annoyed half of the class to bits with my constant hand-raising and compulsive answering. I wished I could help it, but as I said, it was compulsive. Passionate, you could call me, if you were a romantic that was, but I guessed psycho would be a more appropriate word.

Thereby, before anyone could laugh about the laughing stock I voluntarily made myself, I escaped the class as soon as the bell rang. It was sort of chaotic outside; people were heading towards the canteen. I squeezed past the crowd to get myself a lunch tray. I ran my eyes around the room. I could sit with Rachel. No, _no_. Her new friends were too giggly to not give me a headache. Only last minute, they were screaming, going gaga over what – some mint toothpaste, or something? Maybe it was some sexual innuendo that went from right above my head.

Ross was out with fever at home, so that road too had a dead end. He had some friends of his own. I could summon them.

It was then I noticed a blonde girl waving at me. I double-checked behind me: who knew, maybe she was waving at the group of three I was shielding from her line of sight. But the group walked towards the counter instead. I looked ahead; she was still waving. I trotted up to her.

"Hi," I said awkwardly.

"You're Monica, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Ross's sister, right?"

"Uh huh."

The girl didn't belong to my class, and I couldn't really remember seeing her anywhere before. She had a head full of frenzied curly hair that the hair clip struggled to hold back, and a weird but nonetheless pretty necklace made of seashells, which I thought quite complimented her Bohemian hippie skirt. She ushered me towards the just-emptied table near the window, resting her guitar by the chair.

"So, how's first day?" she asked. I wondered whether I should tell her she hadn't introduced herself yet.

"Okayish," I said, as I took a bite of the wafer.

"Good, good," she smiled, "I remember my first day. Stupid science class right in the morning. I felt all _floopy_ , you know."

I grinned nervously.

"Oh, by the way," and it struck her finally, "I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Buffay. Ross invited me to the Thanksgiving last year but I was busy with some stuff I'd to do for the street children."

"Wow," I replied, impressed, "What stuff?"

"Um," she looked around to see any signs of eavesdropping, "Shoplifting."

"Oh. Okay." I laughed a little. I still looked impressed. She gave me a lopsided, impish grin. I remembered Ross talking about her; she was his eccentric friend who wore bottle cork necklaces, made her own shoes and didn't believe in gravity.

"So Monica, did you make any friends?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Although, I know _her_ already" and with it, I pointed at the table of the giggly girls, caught Rachel's eye and for the split-moment she waved me back, "the one with the reddish blonde hair."

"Not for long," Phoebe gave me a smug look. I could guess what she was thinking about.

"C'mon, she isn't thaaaat bad," I persisted. It somewhat made me feel good about myself. Then I continued on an altogether different line of thought, smirking, "Ross loves her."

"She's Rachel Greene?"

"Uh huh."

"I see. Actually I heard. He wrote her a song last week, something like – what was it – oh yeah, _'She Feels Weird since I'm Gone_ '. Not a bad one really."

I snorted on my juice at that. "Sorry," I said, as I wiped my face and had to practically stuff my knuckles into my mouth to keep myself from bursting into laughter again. "Sorry, it's that our dad soundproofed the basement, and when Ross locks himself up there what comes out of it literally sounds like muffled ghosts howling."

Phoebe laughed at it too, but then her eyes bulged out. "Maybe it's the real ghosts. Maybe he has an Ouija board."

"I'm sure it's just him. The real ghost is in the attic," I joked. She gasped. "Kidding," I added.

She stared at her lunch tray. "I know. It's just Chandler talking about those zombie crap thingies ..."

Chandler. I scrunched up my face. My wonderment about the emotionally stunted journey through Lincoln High was about to become ten times worse now that I had realised Ross's jerk best friend was going to be an unfortunate part of the package deal. I grunted inaudibly.

"Whoa, somebody doesn't like Chandler," Phoebe happened to read my face. I blushed.

"There's nothing to like about that... ass-munch," I took to my defence, "He's shallow, has the stupidest haircut I've ever seen in my life and is responsible for my brother's hideous Afro."

"Believe me, Monica, the only person responsible for that Afro is your brother," she sniggered, "And why do you hate Chandler? He's quite a jokester."

I rolled my eyes. "Shallow jokester."

"Oh I don't know. Given the kinds of people you're gonna meet here, he's kinda fun. Lame, yeah, but fun."

If Chandler sounded like one of the good ones to meet at this place, I wondered what sort of demons I was going to encounter in this high school endeavour. I gave in, "Whatever."

"But seriously, why don't you like him? Did he pull at your pigtails in elementary?" Phoebe sniggered. I narrowed my eyes at her.

It wasn't as if I hated him. It was more of, well – ah, screw it, I couldn't pull that lie. I hated him. I had hated him since he was invited to my house last Thanksgiving. I sighed. He wasn't worth wasting the whole lunch break on.

"It's a long story, you know."

* * *

The second half of the high school first-day first-show was pretty mundane. I had sauntered into the library alone, and thought I might secretly check out that book with French recipes (I loved to cook, but I also had this uncontrollable urge to please people; I didn't think it was time yet to tell them it was a futile cakewalk and I might leave soon to join a cooking school anyway).

I had only snuck in right then, and was strolling in between the shelves casually looking for the book (I was so sure it was right there, on the third row in the last shelf in the morning), when I heard someone call behind me. "Lost, are you?"

I jumped, and turned to an unmistakeable flock-of-seagulls haircut. I groaned.

"No," I said. It should've come out as rude, like I had intended, but it sounded nervous instead.

"I'm on community service today," he said, "I can help you."

He gave me a smile, a smile that I would've called cute if it hadn't been that annoying haircut, but maybe I'd go ahead and call it shameless – since I had already iterated – I abhorred him. _Take your shallow ass to some other corner_ , I wanted to say, but I probably didn't want to make a ruckus in a library with a senior on the first day.

"Hey, are you – are you Monica?" He suddenly realised. This time I rolled my eyes. So much for the recognition, mister.

"Yeah," I replied quietly. Should I tell him I already lost ten pounds last summer? I was sure he could totally tell. Huh.

"So, what're you looking for?"

Mr. Annoying just couldn't shut up. I groaned inwardly. "Um, _Les_ _Recettes_ _de_ _France_. You've seen it anywhere?" I talked without looking at him. Damn. I wanted to be ruder, but my stupid mouth hadn't been cooperating with my brains at all. I pulled out a book and gawped unblinkingly into the font.

"Ha, did you take my advice a bit too seriously?" Chandler chuckled.

Really? He wanted reminders from last Thanksgiving? Did he even remember how he fat-shamed me? Jerk. I wished I could just bang the book I held on his head. Even then, perhaps, it would only ricochet against his flock of seagulls and be sent flying back to my face.

"Do I look thin to you? Guess I didn't," I gave him a passive-aggressive smile. My insides high-fived each other in glee. Yes, I did it. I got back at him. I gave him a _Monica_ snap.

He stared back confusedly. He didn't remember calling me fat. No surprise, I scoffed, since he couldn't quite recognise me at first sight either. I sighed. There was no point snapping at someone who didn't even realise he had been snapped at.

"I guess this one's a thinker. What did I _ask_?" he quipped.

As much as I hated to admit, he was quite hard to outwit. Maybe I should silently slip out of the scene. But I wanted the book too, and I wouldn't let silly obstructions like him affect my daily trajectory by any means.

He started again, this time gazing into a register in his hand, "I think, I think the book you're looking for was checked out at 12:40 today."

 _Damn_. I scowled again. "I guess I'll get something else," I mumbled. I hoped that would be his final cue to leave. I felt devastated already. Sighing, I leaned against the shelf, finally blurting it out, "Chandler, will you please –"

"Monica, I don't think you should –"

Before either of us could finish, the wooden bookcase lost its balance and tilted, fell over the next one and before any of us could even let out the gasp of utter horror, began a chain reaction. They collapsed over one another, splattering books all over the place, only to be stopped by the one to the wall. People scrambled around in shock, and the old lady librarian looked like she had entered a state of total trauma, her eyes almost to pop out through the thick square glasses.

"– lean on those things," and thus he concluded.

Holy crap.

I watched down at the massacre of books on the tiled floor. At least, the bookcases didn't kill anybody. Stupid fragile bookcases. Or maybe it was the fact that the force of my leaning was equal to three wholesome persons pushing it down.

"Well," said Chandler, still a bit shaken, "I think we've got the whole night to clean out the battlefield."

Who knew the climax to the first-day first-show would be such a book-splattering bang. To think I might have to stay all evening cleaning the mess. And to think Chandler would be an unfortunate part of the package deal.

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 **I have this strange, strange thing about setting up love stories, and especially through cutesy couple-y fights. :)))) Hope it's quite obvious that the reason Monica doesn't like Chandler right now is the fact that he called her fat on Thanksgiving. The timeline's slightly changed; Ross and Chandler were in high school too, not in college when the Thanksgiving incident happened. Maybe I'll write it as a flashback in a future chapter to clear out the confusion.**

 **Do tell me what you think and review!**


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